


氷菓

by tysunkete (aozu)



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Blind Character, Canon Compliant, Gen, Introspection, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 03:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12903081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aozu/pseuds/tysunkete
Summary: For Marie, the darkness is a cage. He opens his eyes and he sees nothing—he wishes that he can. For Kanda, the darkness is a lure. He closes his eyes and he sees Alma—he doesn’t want to.





	氷菓

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 11/06/2014.

“It’s not about making it go away–

it’s about leveling out, finding the baseline, learning to deal with it.”

 – _we were emergencies_ , **gyzym**

* * *

When Daisya dies, Marie plays a requiem he hasn’t played for in years.

He used to play it over and over again sitting at the steps at the northern sector of the Asian Branch, when he first woke up and found out that everyone in his squad was dead. When he grips the strings of his innocence, that is the only thing that grounds him—the vibrations filter comfortingly to his fingers as his other hand gently plucks a slow song. In his world he doesn’t see anyone or anything anymore; he knows that Daisya is gone from the absence of the other’s loud thudding heartbeat that was always eager, always on.

He fills that hole with the notes of his melody so that he doesn’t smell the death scent lingering in the air.

A distance away, General Tiedoll’s sobs echo into the night. Kanda sits on the stone wall above where he is, silent.

Marie continues his song.

* * *

It’s not uncommon for General Tiedoll to stop along their route to rough out a quick sketch of the scenery. Sometimes it’s more than a quick sketch when there’s no hurry—General Tiedoll brings along pastels of different colours and blends them into paper with his fingers. Kanda used to complain about the sitting around and wasting time till the years under the general’s charge taught him that nothing will happen even if he kicks up a fuss; Kanda now just finds a shady spot to plant himself down and nap.

General Tiedoll sometimes waxes poetic about the things that he puts on paper—the swirl of colours, the blend of the hues; sometimes, Marie believes that he can see them too. Idly next to Kanda he twirls a flower the general had absent-mindedly handed over, marvelling at the soft petals and wet leaves under his touch.

“Yellow,” Kanda tells him.

Yellow as the sun? Or as yellow as a newly cracked egg yolk?

Neither of these colours are things Marie remembers. Yellow is the delicate spongey brush against his fingers. Yellow is the soft wilted sigh of the breeze of its sound. Yellow is what Tiedoll colours his canvas with as they sit while the sun sets.

Yellow is the particular flower in his hand.

* * *

Marie actually dreams in colour.

It’s hard to explain but he knows that he does even if he cannot describe it. Once upon a time colour and shapes were things he took for granted—now they are passing wisps of feelings in his mind that linger when he wakes up.

How do you describe a colour without using its name?

The first colour is that of his fallen comrades. It is the colour he feels when dying calmly with them, surrounded by those who fought valiantly to the end. The second colour is that of a rebirth. It is the flush he feels when blood creeps back to his cheeks. He looks through closed eyes to his hands, even though they are not closed. The third colour is life. It is the colour of hard worn exhaustion with new colleagues by his side.

Red is the scream of his fallen comrades. Yellow is the flower General Tiedoll gives him. Blue is the soft sigh of Kanda’s out breath.

But black is the colour he sees.

* * *

“Do you want my blood,” Kanda says to him.

The swordsman doesn’t even phrase it like a question. It’s pointed, blank, and utterly random—they’re on their way to Edo, battling akuma left right centre even before they get into the capital. General Tiedoll is holding his own paces away from them while they take a quick breather behind a broken stone wall.

Marie doesn’t look at him because it’s useless; he can’t see, and he knows that Kanda knows he heard him. It’s not the first time that Kanda’s brought it up, and because it’s not the first time that Marie knows what he’s offering. Four year old—or is it fourteen—Kanda had sat down in front of him after one particularly rough mission, when he was grasping at the air to breathe because he couldn’t find anywhere in his darkness to hold himself steady, to ask if he wanted his blood.

“No need. It’ll just take time to heal,” he had said, but Kanda wasn’t referring to the cuts and bruises or the broken rib in his side.

“For your eyes,” the child—teenager—had clarified.

Kanda’s heartbeat was calm at that time, like it is calm again, in this time.

To be fair neither of them know if Kanda’s blood will heal his eyes. But Kanda’s blood had healed his head wound when he was supposed to be _dead_ all those years ago—but no, because Kanda has given him a second life when he wanted to end his first, he knows he cannot accept more. Because it could’ve been him, _he_ could’ve been _Kanda_ , the one with a fast-healing body, the one with the blood of life.

The one with the murdered best friend.

For his eyes.

Yes, he wants to say.

It’s been a couple of years but Marie still wakes up in the middle of the night expecting to see something more than darkness. He expects to hear less than he should. In the still of the night somehow everything is still awake—the rustling of the trees, the hoot of an owl, the song of the crickets, even the little scuttle from the spider underneath his bed.

He reaches out and touches the wall by his bed and it’s cold, it’s black, but it’s black not because it’s night but because he can’t see anything but black black black

_black_

It could be cool grey, but it’s black.

“No,” he says, because he doesn’t know if it’ll be easier if he does.

In pitch darkness, he doesn’t have to see the grotesque faces of the akuma laughing at them to die. He didn’t have to see Daisya strung upon the lamp post like a toy. He didn’t have to see General Tiedoll cry. He didn’t have to see Kanda turning his back to the dead body, a low tilt of the head. He doesn’t have to see the war torn broken battlefield that they return to everyday.

It’s a slate of black, much more peaceful than one would think.

Kanda steels himself for the next group of akuma surrounding their hidden position with a slow intake of breath. Marie tightens his strings in anticipation. One, two—and the out of Kanda’s breath gives him the go sign.

It’s the little things, Marie learns, that helps him to keep breathing.

* * *

It’s been nine years and Marie has never seen Kanda’s face.

He doesn’t even have a rough feel of how it looks like either, having no reason to touch the other’s face. But everyone whispers along the corridors of the age old castle about the beauty in Kanda’s footsteps, the strength in his stride, the pride in his movements. It has to be as beautiful as the heartbeat that he hears continually, thumping low and steady, until Kanda disappears through a portal with Alma in his arms.

Marie doesn’t expect to see Kanda again, the tiny boy he yanked an arrow out of when they first met.

He plays the requiem for the last time that night.

* * *

He plucks the familiar tune again three months later.

That’s how Kanda finds him in the dead of the night, sitting off the stone edge up on the roof. Granted, it’s Kanda’s favourite spot, so maybe it’s how Marie finds Kanda when the other comes up. The familiar heart pace gets louder as Kanda approaches and flops next to him a few steps away.

Only when Marie’s finger lingers on the last note that Kanda speaks.

“You don’t want me back,” the other states.

“No,” Marie agrees.

Because he’s known Kanda for nine years, from that stubborn little boy to the surly teenager to the angry young adult harbouring the secret of the second exorcist project—the amount of hidden pain doesn’t cover the disgust Marie still holds about it—it’s inevitable that he doesn’t want Kanda back to the organization that is darker than the demons they are trying to fight.

But that steady heartbeat fills in the missing bass of his silent song.

“I have to,” Kanda replies after a while.

“You don’t owe them anything.”

“Not them,” the other answers. “Him.”

Marie can almost see the twist of annoyance when Kanda admits it. _Allen Walker_. “You’re going after him then?”

“Tch.”

“Be careful,” he nods, and he hears Kanda scoff again in reply.

“I don’t think my blood works anymore,” Kanda says right after.

Marie pauses. “…Be careful,” he repeats, this time, with a different meaning.

“That’s not what I meant.”

It takes a while because Kanda’s always been a person of a few words—too little actually (unless he’s yelling about something he’s pissed about) but Marie has known Kanda for nearly decade.

“I don’t need it, Kanda,” he replies.

Kanda crosses his arms and looks out towards the city below, lights in the horizon.

“It’s harder, isn’t it,” he says finally. “If you could see.”

Marie doesn’t agree, nor does he deny it.

“I can see the lotus, but no one else can,” the other murmurs. “If I was blind, maybe it’ll be an illusion.”

But Kanda _knows_ it’s an illusion—because it’s the sign of his past memories flooding back, the silhouette of Alma from their previous life skirting at the edge. Back then, it was the ghost of that person. Now, Alma and her walk hand in hand, always in front of him, always smiling, and no matter how fast he tries to catch up, he can never reach them.

“He won’t go away,” he mutters. “It won’t go away,” he corrects.

And he doesn’t know if he really wants them— _it_ to. He has just lost and found Alma in too quick paces. He’s not ready to let go of them yet.

It’ll be easier, he thinks, if he couldn’t see.

“It’s not about making it go away,” Marie tells him. “It doesn’t,” the other adds.

Marie has begun a new song, this time, softer and even lower.

“My blood could have made yours go away,” Kanda counters.

“You don’t know that.”

“Neither do you.”

“I suppose not,” Marie agrees. “Sight or not, I don’t think either are better.” Kanda keeps quiet to let him elaborate. “It’ll always be there, whether I want it or not. I don’t count myself lucky to not witness Daisya’s body—I won’t count myself lucky to see it either.”

It’s been _years_ , but the truth is, he’s not over it; about losing his sight. He still walks into walls sometimes, if he’s too much in a hurry. But he’s steady enough to hold weight, steady enough to support Lenalee and Krory and Miranda and Chaoji and Timothy and the generals and the finders, the science division, and whoever’s still in the Order on their side.

“So what,” Kanda huffs. “I have to live with it?”

“Eventually,” he nods. “It just takes time.”

“I don’t have time,” Kanda says, looking at the sky.

“Until then, then,” he replies thoughtfully. “Be careful.”

Kanda exhales, slightly annoyed. “I’m always careful.”

Marie laughs.


End file.
